


Keeper

by millstonetooth



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, canon divergence where lost light ending didnt happen and ratchet is a-okay, drift and rodimus besties moments, drunken proposals, rodiclash for half a second if you squint, very sweet very simple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:09:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29967555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millstonetooth/pseuds/millstonetooth
Summary: Sometimes, when Ratchet is just overcharged enough, he forgets he's already conjuxed to Drift.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Comments: 14
Kudos: 89





	Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Finished this in a mad rush and didn't edit it (nor do I plan to). I feel like a madman possessed about these 2, enough to crank out my first TF fic. Hope it flows nicely.
> 
> OH ALSO: this is post series, except we pretend Ratchet is totally alive and super good and very married. Isn't it nice how he didn't bite it? Yeah. :)

Ratchet is sloshed.

Good and properly doused. Utterly marinated. Just swimming in the energex, of which he hasn’t had many, but the few glasses he _has_ knocked back are high enough grade that even one would make a minibot sway. He’s on, what is it? His third? Been nursing it for some time now, would’ve been drinking it faster now that he’s further along, but Drift has a firm hand around Ratchet’s glass and regulating how often he gets to sip from it.

Oh. Drift.

Handsome, stunning Drift, pressed against his side like a warm beacon. Knocking his head back with a bright, buoyant laugh that leaves Ratchet marooned, his breath stolen from him and his fuel rate thudding fast and light. Ratchet is staring, he knows he is, but he can’t stop himself. Drift is impossible to look away from.

Drift catches him, meets his eye with an inquisitive look of his own. Ratchet’s frown deepens, caught, but he doesn’t shy. Drift smiles, crooked and teeth flashing--the sort of smile that doesn’t bother to hide his still too-sharp canines, reserved for when he’s relaxed or, privately, for Ratchet--and reaches a hand up to rub the pinched space between Ratchet’s brows. His finger is a warm spot, a point of bright contact. Ratchet grunts, flummoxed, but relaxes his face despite himself.

“There we go,” Drift says, touch lingering, and to the side Rodimus coughs loudly. The tension Drift had so sweetly massaged away returns, brow furrowed deeper than before.

“Sorry, it’s just--” Rodimus, brazenly unapologetic, motions to the pair and let’s the little scene speak for itself. Ratchet realizes, a touch belatedly, just how lovey-dovey he and Drift must look. Drift is half in Ratchet’s lap, or maybe it’s the inverse--it’s hard to tell, their bodies overlapped and intertwined, squeezed into their shared booth. Ratchet’s head rests heavy on Drift’s shoulder, and his drink still sits in front of him, but in Drift’s hand. He’s wrapped tightly ‘round Drift’s arm, clutching like some smitten lover, which-- well, which he is. Their legs are tucked under the table, out of his line of sight and thus a mystery as to which is whose in their loving tangle. He wiggles a foot experimentally, but he’s too weightless to determine where it might be.

Disgusting. Purge inducing, too heavy PDA. Ratchet can’t muster even the ghost of a fuck to spare. Rodimus snorts, raises a conspiratory finger and jabs it expressively in the air as he downs his drink, mouth occupied but sentiment communicated. _Exactly_.

Ratchet huffs irritably and ignores Rodimus, best as he can being this drunk. Rodimus is a glaring, blinding flash of red and orange searing the corner of Ratchet’s vision, hard to avoid even when sober, and shutting off his optics don’t do much to blot him out. He’s still searingly warm, even from across the table. 

Ratchet makes a move for his drink. It doesn’t budge. He cracks an eye open, vision input set low to ignore the red-orange smear leaning in to cross his line of sight, and mutters a wordless grievance when he sees Drift’s hand keeping it fixed in place.

“Gimme that,” Ratchet says without bite.

“Slow down, Ratty,” Drift counters smoothly. The timber of his voice is a balm to the headache edging in-- from the energex or Rodimus’s paint job or the booming, throbbing atmosphere of the bar, Ratchet can’t tell. It doesn’t matter anyways; it’s all equally grating his nerves.

“You’re not even drinking it,” Ratchet argues, mostly for the sake of it.

“We’re sharing,” Drift says, then lifts it to take a sip. Ratchet stares at Drift’s mouth even after Drift’s put the glass down, and at the inquisitive quirk of Drift’s brow supplies, “ ’s like you kissed me. Indirectly,” he adds. Where had he heard that before? Swerve, likely. From one of his shows.

Drift’s brows hike higher, his finials twitching in surprise. “Do you want the real thing?” Like he’s reading Ratchet’s damn mind. He’s perfect. Ratchet wants nothing more to soak up Drift’s presence, drink it deep and let it settle in his veins like a second pulse. How hasn’t he conjuxed Drift yet?

Ratchet’s staring at Drift’s mouth again. “Not really thirsty anymore,”

“I wasn’t talking about the energex,” Drift says. His voice is so low, soft and rumbling against Ratchet’s chassis, pitched down just for him to hear. Just for Ratchet, only for Ratchet.

Rodimus scoffs noisily next to them. Ratchet, who had been doing wonderfully at ignoring him, finally deigns him with a look, and makes it as bitter and smarting as possible. Rodimus only grins impossibly wide.

“It’s like I’m not even here,” he observes wistfully. “Like being mad is an afterthought or something,”

“He gets like this sometimes,” Drift says, sounding incredibly fond. “He looks grumpy but he’s having a good time. I think he just acts mad cuz he thinks he should be,” Drift adds with a laugh. Well. It’s not far off from the truth, really. Ratchet’s got an image to uphold.

“Think you know me so well,” Ratchet grunts. Contrarian because… He forgets. Just feels right. 

“Well, Ratchet, I think I do,” Drift leans in close, nose brushing Ratchet’s. His eyes are shining and blue, they’re all Ratchet sees. He could stay here forever, he thinks.

A bar is perhaps the least romantic place to propose, but if Ratchet doesn’t say something now, he might never. Sober Ratchet will hold things in till it kills him. Ratchet as he is now, weightless and inebriated, has no such reservations.

Ratchet surges forward, seals their lips together in a brief but assured kiss. He pulls back enough to lock eyes, finding only welcoming adoration colored by some surprise, and lets this steel him.

“Drift, conjux with me.”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then, suddenly, Drift laughs, full bodied, leaning away from Ratchet to hunch over the table. Ratchet’s too shocked to feel the bite of rejection; Drift is many things, but in matters of the spark he’s dreadfully dedicated and serious. Rejection, were it ever a possibility, would be given firmly, respectfully, gravely-- not… this.

Drift is laughing so hard the sharp points of his fangs glint in the blue-red light of the bar, and he looks like he’s struggling to catch his breath. He’s beautiful, so breathtaking and gorgeous and free that Ratchet forgets to be angry and simply stares. Rodimus is slapping Drift, grinning but confused.

“What, what, what did he say?” Rodimus demands, now using both hands to shake some sense back into Drift. Reminded, Ratchet snaps his gaze back up to glower at Rodimus. “C’mon, he looks like he’s gonna blow me up with his _mind_ , what did he say to you?”

“H-He--” Drift sucks in sharply, interrupted by a fit of giggles, but then leans back over to Ratchet to grip him for support. “He-- he proposed to me--” then he’s swept away in another wheezing bout of laughter.

“Pr-- like. Conjux?” Rodimus glances over to Ratchet, registers his grave expression, and then launches himself back against the booth to howl with cackles. A few heads whip in their direction to stare, but Ratchet sits straighter and ignores them, focus redirected to Drift who has slumped back over the table to clutch Rodimus’s arm.

“Drift, that’s rich--” Rodimus manages, but Drift is waving a hand, smiling like his face is about to split in two.

“No, you don’t-- Roddy, Roddy--” he grasps Rodimus’s collar flaring wildly, free hand held up to quiet him, “Roddy, listen, _this isn’t even the first time_ ,”

“No,”

“Yes,”

“Oh _stop_ \--” But they’re laughing again, and Ratchet feels uncertainty starting to creep in under the heavy fog of energex. He can’t help the slight slump of his shoulders, or how thick his throat feels.

“ ’s’not that funny,” he huffs. Drift sits up suddenly, expression so soft and appraising, and oh, there’s the cold seep of rejection, snaking in like venom.

“Oh, Ratty,” Drift croons, then gathers Ratchet’s face in his hands to lean in and kiss him deep. Ratchet sputters briefly, but kisses back, distracted enough that he again forgets what he was so hurt over. Drift pulls away, but only enough to pepper Ratchet’s cheeks and brow and helm with kisses. “Ratty, Ratty, oh _Ratchet_ , you already have me. I’m already yours,”

“Huh?” But he’s kissed again, reverent. 

“We’ve been conjuxed for years, Ratchet,” Drift whispers against his lips. His thumb is stroking Ratchet’s cheek adoringly. Ratchet frowns, but then--

Oh. Right.

Drift is his conjux.

“Oh,” Ratchet says dumbly.

“Uhuh,” Drift is grinning, wild but loving. Ratchet’s mouth twitches, unable to hide his smile. “Which means we need to go home now,”

“What?” Rodimus whines. 

Drift, still holding Ratchet, glances to Rodimus. “He only starts proposing again if he’s really, really drunk.”

“On three glasses?”

“Four, he had one before we came out,” Drift corrects. Ratchet doesn’t even remember that. “It’s been a while. Got a little carried away, he was nervous to see you again,”

“Me?” Rodimus glances to Ratchet, and Ratchet frowns. He was?

“Don’t tell him I told you,” Drift whispers loudly, conspiratory. Ratchet frowns a little deeper. He _had_ been, and nervous wouldn't be the word of choice for the bubbling excitement of seeing an old friend, but Drift didn't need to mention it to Rodimus.

“Thank you for having us, Roddy, it’s good to see you,” Drift continues, letting Ratchet go long enough to sweep Rodimus in a tight hug and plant a kiss on his cheek. Oh, they’re standing now. Since when were they standing? He sways, listing to the side, but he’s caught by a broad, glaring set of blue hands. He frowns, glances back and up to see the charming red gaze of his good friend Thunderclash.

“Thunders,” Ratchet says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s my ship, Ratchet,”

“ _Our_ ship,” Rodimus cuts in sharply. Thunderclash smiles, warm and loving and-- did he ever get anywhere with that horrible crush? Maybe. Oh, Ratchet is _drunk_.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” Drift says, and Ratchet’s back in his arms. He loses sight of Thunderclash, too busy staring at Drift as he’s led out of the bar and to their shared hab suite.

The walk is short, but the silence is companionable, and he leans against Drift heavily as he punches the code in for their door.

“You said yes?” The door slides open, then clicks shut quietly behind them. He feels the berth against his back, his world tilted sideways, and Drift leant into his vision. He could stare at Drift forever.

Drift smiles, and it’s a light source all on its own. “Oh, Ratty, I kissed you so hard I chipped your tooth,” Drift says, brushing his thumb along Ratchet’s bottom lip. He leans down to press a light, barely there kiss onto Ratchet’s brow. “You were bleeding everywhere. And you wouldn’t let me look at it until I actually gave my answer.”

“Which was?” But Ratchet is already sliding into recharge, comfortable and safe in the circle of Drift’s arm, the warm rumble of his engine.

“Ask me again in the morning,” Drift says, and Ratchet is asleep.

\--

Ratchet awakens to the worst headache he’s had in a _millenia_. He sits up slowly, clutching the side of his helm, and blissfully, the hab suite’s lights are dim and the curtains are shuttered. He sees Drift sitting on the couch, lit by the low glow of his datapad, and wonders distantly if Drift’s paint job reflects light so well naturally.

“Do you remember my answer?” He asks.

For a moment, Ratchet stares. Then, the memories of last night trickle back into his processor, and he grins, lopsided and sure. “Yeah, I do. Hey, I think my tooth is hurting again. Come kiss it better?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on twitter! Come say hi if you want!! :)  
> https://twitter.com/panicbone_
> 
> Tumblr too, though with far less frequency.  
> https://grandint.tumblr.com/
> 
> EDIT: A very darling person on twitter drew something for this!!!!  
> https://twitter.com/Kurasachan/status/1369986376561745923?s=20


End file.
